


All My Dreams Fulfill (Take My Hand)

by CBlue



Series: Geraskier Week (2020) [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Elvis Presley is a Bard, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Violence, No Plot/Plotless, This is sort of a word vomit one, Treating Wounds, fuck Marx Valdo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:15:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22819126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CBlue/pseuds/CBlue
Summary: When Geralt returns to the village only to find Jaskier bloody and beaten, there's a heart to heart to be had between lovers. Also, Elvis is a bard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geraskier Week (2020) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1639330
Comments: 18
Kudos: 276





	All My Dreams Fulfill (Take My Hand)

**Author's Note:**

> This is Day 3: Protection of Geraskier Week (@geraskierweek). This one is super word vomity with little to no plot. It was sort of just a vent piece even when originally it was meant to be more plot like I guess. Oh well. I enjoyed it. No beta we die like witchers.

“A fool,” Geralt spoke gently as he held the soaked rag to Jaskier’s face. “A fool starts a fight he knows he cannot win.”

“Winning wasn’t the point,” Jaskier hissed through pain. “The point was-” the bard cut himself off, looking away before the movement made him wince.

Geralt furrowed his brow, cleaning the bloodied rag before setting to swab at the minstrel’s face again. “And what was the point, lark?”

Jaskier huffed, as much as he could with his bruised side and possibly even bruised ribs. His words were mumbled, so much that Geralt’s witcher hearing could not even make out what he had said.

“ _ What? _ ” Geralt growled, frustrated with the bard’s unusual quietness, frustrated with the wickedness of men as evident of Jaskier’s swollen face.

Bloodied knuckles clenched around the bedsheets as Jaskier snapped his gaze to Geralt. “The point was to get them to  _ shut up! _ ” Jaskier forced his fist to unclench, grimacing at the soreness the action left in his bones. “They wouldn’t stop…  _ saying  _ things. I couldn’t let them continue! Going about as if they actually knew  _ any _ witcher, let alone you.”

Geralt paused, eyes widening as he sat back and away from Jaskier. “What?” He reiterated softer.

“They go on as if they know anything about monsters!” Jaskier shouted, arm flailing while the other lay heavy and half-dead in its sling. “Now me? I’ve  _ seen _ monsters, and you - Geralt of Rivia - you are  _ not _ a monster. Monsters come stalking into villages and pillage and rape and  _ kill _ and you defend people who hate you and value you for less than what your skills are worth!” Despite Jaskier’s injuries, he seemed empowered by apparent rage. Appalled at the village’s treatment of Geralt.

And Geralt… was speechless. It had never even occurred to him that his bard would be  _ defending  _ his honor like some flowery ballad he usually sang. He knew that Jaskier would grow restless in the face of a village’s ire, that his fingers would twitch and his jaw would tick at the title of Butcher, but Geralt had never tended wounds that had been made  _ for  _ him.

“Now then, I know I might not be much in a fight, my darling, but you really  _ should _ have seen the other guy.” Jaskier gave a wet chuckle before coughing. “Ugh, whichever poet romanticized the taste of blood never tasted his own.” The bard’s face scrunched in disgust as what Geralt assumed was strong copper pooled along his tongue.

“Jaskier,” Geralt drew for his bard’s attention, setting aside the washing bowl and rag. Clearing his throat, the witcher inhaled sharply. “Still the fool for taking on a fight you cannot win.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, sighing as he cast his gaze away from Geralt. “I’ve already told you, love, that winning was never the point.” He furrowed his swollen brow as if it was the wall that had offended Geralt. “If I had remained silent, then one might have presumed their words were acceptable. Not just to me, but to be said at all.”

“Humans will say what they want,” Geralt grunted. There was no point in endangering himself if the people that feared Geralt would always fear him. They were looking for someone to blame, to be afraid of, and a witcher was an easy target. 

Those cornflower irises withered at Geralt’s words, leaving the witcher furrowing his brow as he tried to recall exactly what he had said. “Yes, I suppose we will.” Jaskier pointed out what Geralt had overlooked. “Which is why nothing you say will stop me from trying to persuade the public of the Geralt that I know.”

Sighing, Geralt brushed away the bangs that clung to Jaskier’s bloodied and bruised face. He kissed at his bard’s forehead gently. “You’ve never been like them.”

“But I am one of them,” Jaskier rebutted. “On most days, I wish I was not, but I am human, my dearest.” His laugh was a cruel breath. “Suppose that makes me more like the monster than you.”

“No,” Geralt growled, slashing at that line of thought with his words like it was a griffon before his sword. “Do not say such things.” If he were a stronger man, perhaps the words would have been a command. As it was, the witcher was cradling his bard’s face gently, begging him. “You are a good man, Jaskier.”

“And so are you,” Jaskier sighed, leaning into Geralt’s touch. “How could a monster be so gentle, mhm?” The bard hummed, closing his eyes as the fire in his heart smoldered like a dying fire in the night.

Chuckling, Geralt turned to put away the rag and bowl. The unused bandages were returned to their bags and the witcher returned to sit beside Jaskier. There was a comfortable silence between them as Geralt looked to his hands.

Those hands had been crafted for murder. For death. And yet now they were used to heal, to tenderly hold and reassure. Clearing his throat, Geralt looked pointedly away from his bard. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Jaskier looked to him with something akin to awe. The bard took his good hand - as good as a scrapped and bloodied hand could be in comparison to an immobile hand - and laced it with Geralt’s own. “Of course, my wolf.” Bringing Geralt’s hand to his swollen lip, Jaskier pressed his tender flesh to Geralt’s calloused hand. “I’m the sort of man to fight for your honor, you know.”

A gentle chuckle that escaped Geralt - more like a rumble - rolled in the space between them. “I know, lark.”

And it was something that Jaskier knew that despite the possessive omission,  _ lark _ was still  _ my lark _ .

“ _ Love me tender, love me sweet, _ ” Jaskier sang softly, almost too sweetly, against Geralt’s hand. It was something far too tender for the gore that had laid on that hand before a bard’s loving words. And yet here they were. Jaskier was still here and Geralt had yet to chase him off.

There had been moments, surely. Times where Geralt felt it in his very being, whatever might be the equivalent to his soul, that Jaskier was never coming back. But Jaskier always came back. Came back until the time he didn’t. Until Geralt had to go after him. Well, Geralt had not needed to go after him. After all, Geralt needed no one. Needed no one wanting him.

Except he did need. He did want. So he went after Jaskier.

Followed the bard like a shadow until he could admit it. And when he did admit to wanting and needing, there was something desperate. It had always been desperate when it came to Jaskier. And desperation burned high until Jaskier quenched the flames until it burned like a candle in the night. A comfort, a guidance, and Geralt could do nothing but follow it in the dark. Following until Geralt was here with him now.

Jaskier was singing other words, continuing in the soft ballad that he had picked up on their last trip to Oxenfurt. “ _ Tell me you are mine. I’ll be yours through all the years. _ ”

Grunting, Geralt rested his forehead against Jaskier’s own. He was certain his cooler body temperature must have been soothing to Jaskier’s wounds. But Jaskier seemed just content with the touch. Geralt kissed at Jaskier’s swollen cheek, the usually smooth skin reddened and purpled under the witcher’s dry lips.

“You must like that one, to sing another bard’s ballad so much.” Geralt rumbled, closing his eyes to let the red bleed away from his vision. The red that fed his urge to protect, to run men through with his sword. He hunted monsters, after all, and Jaskier had correctly identified them as such. But the red became blue, cornflower blue, as Geralt rested against Jaskier.

“Hmm,” Jaskier smiled, humming where Geralt would otherwise grunt. “The sentiment, my darling, is something that very few minstrels have been able to capture. That young thing understands.” The bard smiled with pride. “I taught him, you know, on one of my stints as a professor in Oxenfurt. Valdo Marx -  _ if you can believe it  _ \- actually told him he couldn’t sing. That bastard.” Jaskier’s indignation was short-lived as he winced from soreness again. “Then that young man created the most lively performance of  _ Keep Them On Me _ .”

Jaskier’s rambling was comforting. If the bard was speaking, then that meant he was as usual. That meant that monsters had not stolen Geralt’s candlelight. But it was Geralt who was a fool to think that mere men could extinguish what burned so brightly inside of Jaskier. Jaskier was the very Chaos of fire. A candle, a bonfire, a hearth, a campfire.

“He’s written a multitude of brilliantly orchestrated ballads. That one about fire and love is a good one, but my favorite -  _ my utmost favorite  _ \- is the one about the ocean.”

It was foolish that Jaskier was still protecting Geralt, still comforting him. It was even more foolish that Geralt desired more. But Geralt would always desire more, selfishly so, when it came to Jaskier. “Sing it for me,” the witcher pleaded.  _ Sing it for me so I know that you are alive in my arms. _

And it was something that Jaskier knew, Jaskier heard it.

The bard’s eyes smiled. Less of a strain on his already strained features, but no less brilliant. A field of blooms, a sky of blue, and a lullaby to protect Geralt’s aching heart. For witcher’s were without feelings, but Geralt of Rivia was not without Jaskier.

“ _ Wise men say only fools rush in, _ ” Jaskier’s voice whispered, barely above a hum, as a young bard’s words encompassed all that Geralt felt. He had never thought minstrels knowing of experience, of someone knowing him aside from a select few, but perhaps there was magic to a bard’s song. Something that they knew. “ _ But I can’t help falling in love with you. _ ”

Geralt was familiar with the tune, the ballads that made Jaskier shine with pride and brilliance because he always took pride in others’ songs. In his students’ songs. Humming, Geralt took no warmth of pride, no pride but for the lark whose heart belonged to him. Pride for the fierceness of his hearth, the protection that radiated from it.

Ramblings, ramblings more fitting of Jaskier during their travels, but ramblings that kept the red away. Anything to let the sea wash away the anger. Jaskier continued, grip tightening ever so slightly on Geralt’s hand. “ _ Take my hand, take my whole life too… _ ”

Geralt could remember Jaskier following him. Following him until he didn’t. Until Geralt followed Jaskier. And he had not regretted it a day of his life. A day of Jaskier’s life. Would never regret it even beyond both of their days.

“ _ For I can’t help falling in love with you. _ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Elvis Presley's High School music teacher told him he couldn't sing.


End file.
